


Affixed Erratica

by Calaphrass (SexyStripedTie)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood Kink, Blood!Kink, Bloodplay, Bottom Dean, Established Relationship, Knifeplay, M/M, Minor D/S Undertones, Murder Kink, definitely not by the victim though, good times are had, specifically on the victim's kitchen counter, spoilers they fuck on a kitchen counter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 13:44:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5628694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SexyStripedTie/pseuds/Calaphrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This. <i>This</i>. As fucked up and dangerous and feral as they were, underneath every veneer they wore, <i>this</i>. This was the trust between them. This was as physical a display as they could possibly give of the belief, the faith, the <i>knowledge</i> that strung them together, that kept them glued. That kept them constantly, consistently, incoherently within each other’s orbit.</p>
<p>They weren’t social people, didn’t <i>need</i> anyone -- but they sure as hell craved each other. Lusted for each other. Thirsted for each other in every sense -- mind, body, soul, even, maybe, if they actually had souls, and because of just how goddamn compatible they were. They were fucked up, yeah, and neither of them were the least bit repentant over it -- but being fucked up <i>together</i>?<br/>That was even better. It was <i>heaven</i>.</p>
<p>Or at least, their personal, delicious brand of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Affixed Erratica

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday fic for the bae. Enjoy!
> 
> Written for the prompt:  
>  _helLO amazing person would u be so kind to fulfil a deep wish of mine to read about Sam fucking Dean in a victim’s house (hey, they’re dead and they have a nice place), they creatively use a glossy kitchen counter, and they’re hurrying ‘cause u never know when the cops might wanna check out who the hell broke in a sealed and taped murder scene, in so most clothes are still on tysm uwu (feel free to change any details this is just a general gist)_
> 
> Artwork by the _amazingly_ talented [Mary](http://sketchydean.tumblr.com/).

 

A _snick_ of a knife snapping sharp through police tape jolted through the house’s eerily still silence. Then a man was walking in, hair long, stride longer, tall as he was unerringly, calculatingly handsome. Another man followed a few steps behind, shorter by a few inches and just as striking, if not a little more conventionally attractive.

It was the lips. And the jaw (but everything, really, in Sam’s opinion). He’d always found those parts of him especially sinful.

 

“Police were here.” Sam mused, stating the obvious; setting the mood. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth as they stepped in, careful to avoid stepping in any of the soured puddles of blood. And Dean, of course, went with it.

“Looks like, Sammy.” Sam shot a look at Dean, and he grinned back, wolfishly.

“You think they’ll come back?” It’d been twelve hours, precisely. Twelve hours since they’d decided to _celebrate_ , and follow their next unfortunate home, and charm their way inside, and then, of course -- they’d driven a knife into his heart. Several times. Just for good measure.

“Oh, yeah. Any minute, probably.” Dean motioned towards the living room adjacent. “One of ‘em left their flashlight. They’ll be back for that.”

 

Twelve hours since the murder. Twelve _minutes_ since the police had left. And here they were. Sam huffed out a laugh as they slowly guided each other into the kitchen, glances subtle but never leaving each other, not really. Watching. _Preying_ , almost, if that word was applicable when they were both as enthusiastic as the other about getting preyed upon by each other.

“Perfect.”

“Yeah?”

“Get on the counter.”

 

Dean’s eyes darkened perceptibly. And then he was _obeying_ , ardent, eager, his breathing spiked and oh so audible in the dead stillness around them, hiking his perfectly sculpted ass right onto that marble kitchen counter, which was glossy and pristine and unmarred in its entirety except for the blood. There were spurts of it. Long, thin spurts that painted the surface into a particularly filthy portrait of their idea of a good time.

They’d made sure it was a messy death. Dean _loved_ when things got messy.

And Sam? Sam fucking loved Dean.

He pressed closer, stepping between his legs, closing in demandingly, possessively, downright _hungrily_ , savoring the delicate sensation of one of Dean’s hands sliding up his dress shirt (and the sheer juxtaposition of it) as Sam’s hand slipped into Dean’s pocket, feeling for the knife he’d used so _expertly_ earlier. Sam found his purchase the moment Dean found his. And then Dean’s grip was tightening, and he was _yanking,_ jerking Sam forward by the neck, by the tie, and Sam _went_ , their mouths colliding, not soft, _never_ soft unless it was to prove a point.

 

They devoured each other -- mouths hot and wet, fingers under and on top of clothes, Dean’s greedy hands seeking out Sam’s thick head of hair that he kept _so_ deliciously silky and his breath hitching when he felt the cool press of the knife held in Sam’s palm; knew what Sam sneaking it promised.

_Fuck yes_ , he thought searingly.

They couldn’t undress; didn’t have the time. But that was just fine. There were a million and one ways they knew how to pleasure each other, and nudity fell radically short of being a requirement.

“ _Sammy._ ” He breathed it reverently.

Sam answered him without words. He leant forward, instead, bent a little, and pressed a kiss to the most sensitive part of Dean’s throat, gentle and sweet. A love declaration. A promise. Dean’s throat bobbed involuntarily.

 

And then there was a knife. _The_ knife. The same knife that Dean had used to spill red twelve hours before, and that had left a mosaic of desecration in their wake: desecration that had slid hot and slick and sticky from between his fingertips, that had dripped scarlet from the knife, that had stained the man’s antique, ornate rugs where it spattered and that pooled, shallow and sick, on the pecan wood.

It sunk against Dean’s skin, now, not forcefully enough to breach skin, but enough to make him still entirely, his heart pounding, lips parted, eyes slipping half-closed as he _watched_ Sam, watched the guised concentration and obvious arousal play across his face.

Dean swallowed. The motion pressed the blade down harder, and Dean felt the sweet, sickly _warmth_ of a small rivulet of his own blood dripping down before he even felt the pain. And then Sam was pressing down _harder_ , drawing more blood, spilling more of him but not too much, _never_ too much, and Dean _moaned_ , arching his body and grappling at Sam and shivering with arousal. Melting into it.

 

This. _This_. As fucked up and dangerous and feral as they were, underneath every veneer they wore, _this_. This was the trust between them. This was as physical a display as they could possibly give of the belief, the faith, the _knowledge_ that strung them together, that kept them glued. That kept them constantly, consistently, incoherently within each other’s orbit.

They didn’t need each other, not really. Sam could slit his throat and be done with it. Could keep it nice and clean, just like he liked. Dean could choke him to death in his sleep, or even more realistically, during an amazing round of sex. He _could_. But he wouldn’t. Never would. Wouldn’t goddamn _dream_ of it.

Just like Sam wouldn’t hurt him now.

Because they weren’t social people, didn’t _need_ anyone -- but they sure as hell craved each other. Lusted for each other. Thirsted for each other in every sense -- mind, body, soul, even, maybe, if they actually had souls, and because of just how goddamn compatible they were. They were fucked up, yeah, and neither of them were the least bit repentant over it -- but being fucked up _together_?

That was even better. It was _heaven_.

Or at least, their personal, delicious brand of it.

 

“So goddamn good for me.” Sam breathed, cock twitching in his pants, already plenty hard from Dean’s show -- from his _moaning_ so goddamn pretty, from his arching like a slut, from the breathtaking _trust_ Dean handed to him, without fail. Him, who’d happily off too many men to count. But then again, so would Dean. So had Dean. So had he. And then again, when the time came, Sam handed him that same trust right on back. If he was honest, it was intoxicating.

 

Knives weren’t Sam’s method of choice. But they were one of Dean’s.

“Sam, fuck.” It came out throatily and plaintive. It was quiet desire, mixed with craved pain, mixed with the very real and metallic blood dripping down his gorgeous, biteable, perfectly curved throat. Staining his dress shirt. Staining his skin.

Sam lifted the knife a fraction. And then he was surging forward instead, reclaiming Dean’s mouth, his hair tumbling forward with the motion, framing both their faces and tickling the skin there almost ironically gently given their kisses; given their proclivities. Flames licking at both their insides, Dean scrambled for Sam’s belt, unbuckled it with vigor, _yanked_ \--

“Any minute, S-Sammy-- _fuck_ \--”

Dean sounded _desperate_ , and _fuck_ if that didn’t have the sheer, overwhelming _heat_ of the situation dragging its slow, electric fingers up Sam’s spine. He all but tore Dean’s shirt open in a bid to touch more skin. Had to, before they ran out of time. Before _someone_ walked in on them, searching for their stupidly forgotten flashlight.

“Lube?” He asked, breathless, his voice low and positively _dripping_ with intent.

“Don’t need it.”

_That_ caught him off guard. He looked up, eyebrow arched high, a surprised, dubious snort slipping out before he could stop it, because being a sadomasochist was _one thing_ , but--

“Already got myself ready.” Dean clarified, looking smug. “Why’d’ya think I took so long in the bathroom?”

Oh.

_Oh_.

That--

Sam’s expression hardened into something _hungry_.

_Well, that was one way to speed up the process_.

 

“God.”

It came out thin; shaky. Dean was nearly teetering on the edge already, because Sam had wasted _no_ time in stripping them in the most important places and then _impaling_ Dean, all at once, in one smooth, fluid, tight-and-feverishly-hot glide. His hands were vice grips on either of Dean’s hips, the knife was discarded beside them, and--

“ _God_.”

Sam let out a harsh, breathless laugh. Dean’s moaning was _filthy_ as they rocked and thrusted, panting against each other and clutching at whatever fabric they could keep a hold on. Sliding home was the easy part; it was convincing his starving self to cant his hips _backwards_ again, to put any amount of space back between them, that was the problem. Especially when Dean was still bleeding -- still bleeding _happily_ \-- his head tilted back and his lips parted on an open-mouthed smile and goddamn _gorgeous_ with his want.

“Fuck.”

Sam was panting hard against the blood-sweat-slick curve of Dean’s neck. His eyes were squeezed shut, his mouth was fallen open, and he exhaled sharply with every other thrust, each one of his meeting with an upward roll of Dean’s hips.

Sam was fucking _stunning_ in his spurred-on desperation, in Dean’s searing, humble opinion. Especially when he _clenched_ around him, and Sam made a shocked noise like it was something punched out of him, sharp and ravenous and nearly incoherent -- and then _fucked him harder_.

“Fuck _. Dean_.” Sam’s grip on his hips had to be _lethal_ at this point, to say nothing of _other, larger parts of his anatomy_. But Dean. _Dean_.

“ _Ah-- y-yeah, just like that. Fuck._ ”

And just like that, one of them, maybe the other, definitely both of them once the first crossed that final finish line, seized and gasped and _came,_ hard -- Sam’s hands smearing blood (Dean’s or the victim’s? He didn’t know at this point; he’d touched Dean _and_ the table thoroughly.), Dean’s hands fisted on Sam, Sam’s cock buried snug and tight and _deep_ in his ass, Dean’s cock staining Sam’s clothes with even more bodily fluids.

 

The rumble of an engine and tires turning on gravel road jolted them back to the world outside each other’s panting, winded, deliciously sated arms. The tires pulled into the driveway; the engine cut out. They shared a look.

They grinned. Pressed towards each other. Kissed, slow and sweet and deep.

“Ready?” Sam asked, once they’d pulled apart a fraction of an inch, their breath mingling.

“Don’t you know it.” Dean’s responding smile was broad and anything but sweet.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also on Tumblr: http://sexystripedtie.tumblr.com/post/136489903759/sketchydean-said-hello-amazing-person-would-u-be


End file.
